Well, this is exactly what Asher asked for, wasn't it?

Even so it is the shift of startled twitch which first occupies him. He hikes himself upon elbows the moment Rois pulls his weight off. Asher is a swirl of ill tidings as he follows the motion down with frosty eyes, accumulated damage in little cuts and bruises now exposed to the humid air where rough hands recklessly prickle and poke. It does not last long. The squeamishness settles down as an insistent tongue coaxes Asher away from old pains and into... new ones? No, another feeling.

"Ah--"

He ought to say more than that pathetic little gasp, but his mind has gone blank. The little kitchen is full of them and nothing else. What Asher sees is the arch of back, twitch of effort along the ribcage. Tastes sweat evaporating in the air, tangy with the mix of blood. Feels tiles pressing against his spine, the only cool thing in the room. All of it leads back to the center, and the feeling, and the rhythm of chasing it. And it is a very difficult rhythm to keep up, because Asher can not move at all. Go a little too much this way or that and teeth would catch on something sensitive.

And he does decently well with it, too, until a sound comes out of Rois. The other man swallows an easy, rumbling laugh which pulls lips tight against shaft and dribbles wet warmth down Asher's thighs. He can imagine the look on Rois' face that must come with the sound: all cheeky squint, tongue peeking out between teeth. Asher lets out a heated, soundless gasp and kicks up a leg, pressing it against hip.

"Don't do that," he says breathless, squirming against the heat. His hands go up to push at shoulders. "I won't be able to--"

...keep up? Hold back? The thought remains unfinished. A quelling shudder has Asher curling his toes inside his boots and for a long moment he seems very, very determined not to move an inch.
 

‘Don’t do that--’​

Little lamb squirming on his back with a gentle bleat, daring to take a foot to him…! Of course it does nothing to shake him, of course it’d only make things worse; that little noise. He wished to hear the delightful sound again, he loved making men squeak out, and they always did; big or small or young or old, in their moment of carnal desire trapped amidst the surging want to stride onwards and the suffocating will to make it last… all they could do is cry out in vain. They didn’t have the power.

He did.

Pitiful, blunt nails come against the span of his broad shoulders, ah, he too has a place for his own hands to go, they slip up the cruxes of Asher’s legs and spread thighs with a biting touch wide, wider than comfortable, strain, claw-tips stark against red flesh birth thin lines angry and raw. The movement is slow and calculating and it is just their tips, fish-hooks snatching up flesh, never going deep enough to scar… but not light enough to be just composed of lines, quickly do those rake-marks begin to prick with little beads of precious blood like the notes of a music sheet lending themselves ever downwards in haunting streaks of dark crimson. This is nothing more than knife-point lightly scraped against skin, it could get much worse, it was going to get worse, hands upon tender flesh threaten to press inwards with curled fingers with a full second of heavy pressure-------

… A slip out with teeth points in the gentlest creep imaginable downwards, catching but never harming: and a numbing coldness meets lamb, the thin sheen of saliva is almost ice-like in the vacancy of a hot mouth, thread of spittle hangs from angry cock-head to lips… Rois never allows him to see his face. In the mess of curls below the only thing noticeable is the sharp shine of light catching the gleam of teeth beneath shadow-fall,

“If you want me to go all the way… you better beg for it.” None of this 'don't do that' nonsense-- words were quiet snarl, tongue gently rises to catch the wanting erection captured in amused sights, and though it immediately serves to warm Asher it does not compare to the before in any single way. Rapidly dying embers. A weak sliver of sunshine. The meager heat of an almost dead kettle. A slip upwards sees that angry head flat against that textured muscle, a slight push forward, stifled words rumble out as slow, sneering roll,

“Plead for it, Lamb.”

Snickering... cruel, breezy snickering, tongue retracting...

"Or I'll leave you here."
 
A cold, cleansing breath after surfacing from a long swim, chills from the water beading into rivulets. A press through brambles, thorns catching against exposed skin, thighs aching with exertion. The parting is not painful, because Asher has felt these things before, and he knows they are not dangerous. Besides, it gives him a lovely view. Thin, silver line of spittle connects them for a moment longer before Rois settles in with gruff flurry of lips and breath and hair. He like the look of it, likes it enough to be willing to linger there a moment and listen.

It's the words that bring Asher back to flatness. They don't match, again, threat and tease, cold shadowed face and heat of tongue.

Several heartbeats go by. If one looks intently at the pinpricks of pupil, they can see the dark slosh of liquid churning around inside Asher's skull. He is having another cruel thought. He is thinking that Rois' mouth is right there and it's already cocked half-open in a smirk and it would not be hard at all to grab that tuft of hair free of bandages and tug. Make him go all the way down, down.

Funny feeling. It is harder to shake off this time, because there is less room to squirm. Asher looks away, to the shuttered window where dusty light is filtering through the slats.

"I didn't beg when I died," he says instead of following the thought. He can look again. Cold eyes go back to study a face obscured. "Why should I now?"

Most people did not really know what sort of person they would become, when faced with an ending, when forced to struggled against a sharp point. Asher did.

"And there's no need for more flirting, you've already got me plenty riled."

He can't tell what Rois is thinking, with thick tangle of hair obscuring glowing eyes. Carefully -- Asher heard the warning, he knows to be careful --he brushes up damp curls with a hand against forehead.

"Or is this part for you?"
 

“For me, of course.”

An oddball with the rigidness of almost normalcy amidst the very demanding erection between his legs, poor little thing, lost in the own madness of his skull… though Rois suspects Asher’s personal brand of insane is more like a stifling fog that obscures rather than the stark, rushing-upwards peaks of hell and fire that occupies his own thoughts. A simple statement,

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t know how the game is played.” A purr that manages to keep its cruelty at bay, only because the butcher is aware it is not Lamb’s fault, he is not dumb, just broken. As curls are displaced from the teasing curve of his eyebrows Rois explains clearly to his moon-eyed companion the fundamentals, “There are two roles; the dominant, aggressive, powerful person who has all the control… and the submissive, yielding, weaker person who has none of it. You can only play one part, but you are able to switch those roles…”

A dark, lowly roll of growled out laughter, it is a warning, a precursor that something is about to happen--

“And at the moment, can you guess which one you are?”

A sudden rush of motion as hands come down against the youngers scratched up thighs, no under-grab, no support, claw curl forcefully drags one the other man’s legs up to hitch them against shoulders with nail-point producing the beginnings of grass-green, bruising; absolutely ignoring the cock twitching close to his face he immediately begins to work against the inner thighs by way of fang-tip nicking flesh almost savagely. At first it is all play against the legs quietly scabbing wounds, but upon realization that he had not gone deep enough on the first pass, well, the semi-suspended Lamb is treated to the actuality of a set of jaws firmly grasping at the lean fat of Asher’s thigh… and in a bout of mean-spiritedness, Rois begins to slowly pull. A pitbull latched on, colours, wonderful colours of a wild-garden beginning to bloom, blood oozing thickly against an eager tongue, teeth slip beneath the threshold to jostle against taught, warm muscle, it tastes… it tastes like heaven. The fast pumping blood is fringed with excitement, makes it all the sweeter, it tastes like a willing participant not yet struggling, not yet enforcing boundaries, and without them? Dog would do as he pleased, when he pleased, how he pleased.

Completely uncaring that the other was now subjected partially to gravity, ass lifted upon the ground and spine curled, the pain would be akin to the stinging burn of his already wounded shoulder; except more prickly. More hot. Rois slides the one visible, emotionless eye down to his little victim beyond the excitement of his crotch to look him dead on with a feverish challenge there, Ashers blood beginning to wind down his chin with a harsh swallow to collect the liquid already pooling in his mouth--

Are you going to do something about this?
 
The bite is not so deep as to nick artery, but it is close to the heating vein, close enough to be uncomfortable, to make Asher aware of the blood pounding in his skull, no longer a pleasant prickle in the haze of curiosity which bolstered him before.

That is not the problem. The problem is that Asher’s nose should be filled with the acrid tinge of copper, and it is not. What he smells is growing, wet, ambitious, like dark black soil without seed. That isn’t what blood is supposed to smell like. Bob and swallow of throat - is that what it tastes like to Rois? Asher cannot begin to ask the question when there are so many other questions in line before it. And nevermind every single one of them, because first of all the two of them needed some common understanding of what harm was because the bite fucking hurt.

Asher didn't notice whatever challenge Rois threw out with a glancing eye muffled between legs, because he was already moving. Hands go up behind his head, fingers splayed out against tile, pushing himself into a bridge pose. Muscles along ribs roll and flex, casting shadows where skin had once seamed smooth before. Uncaring of teeth, thighs come to press against Rois' ears in a headlock. With a twist of strength Asher rolls the whole mess of them sideways. He comes down gentle on toes and knees, still straddling Rois' shoulders, poses inverted.

Nearly a perfect landing, except someone knocks some part against the table, rattling the teacups. One of the cups clatters to falling, spilling its full contents across the table and drip, dripping coffee onto the tile. The cup rolls to the very edge, and topples. Not even looking, Asher catches it with one hand. He glances at the delicate, painted porcelain grasped there in palm.

The sight of the teacup sends Asher over the edge. He bristles. Arm stretches out to set the cup back in place on the table with a rough clink. There is something like that aggression which Rois urged there on his face, but it is not acceptance of the role, instead a rebuttal:

"Such big words all the time but what have you done? You haven't finished a thing that you’ve started. Not the coffee, not this. Powerful, weak, whatever. The only thing I see is an aimless flake!"

The kind of strength Asher has, he can only maintain it if he keeps moving. No matter the circumstance, he would never have the heft to simply stay still and enforce his will. So he pushes off the ground and shifts onto the balls of feet, then heels, then standing.

Long stride, door slam. He makes good on what Rois had threatened before, and leaves.

Standing outside on the landing, he has a moment to himself. It’s only when the breeze brushes against bare skin that Asher realizes how vulnerable he is, and how ridiculous. Even if the fort is empty of witnesses, he can’t walk around like this, naked and oozing blood. It's not long at all before he turns round again and creaks the door open. Sheepishly, he leans in and takes a step back inside.

“I need my clothes…”
 

Uh… what just happened?

One moment there is delicious blood painting the inside of his eager mouth red, the next? Pressure at the side of his skull that causes him to squeak in an unmanly manner, eyes flying open with a sharp intake of breath, and then… sideways. Stone and movement and clattering and cup falling-- from his stupid, laid-about position Rois extends an arm (that was nowhere near to actually catching the cup) and lets it fall slowly as Lamb begins to gnash teeth, anger, so much anger,

“... Huh?”

… And he is still trying to process how he actually ended up rolled over like this. Thankfully there hadn’t been any collision with his skull and the tile hard enough to trigger anything but a dull ache, with a grunt and a semi-sneer of displeasure the red-head drags himself up into a sit with starry-eyes of wonderment as Asher promptly walks half naked through the goddamn door.

A lot of things run through his mind; had he not been concise enough? Was the extent of the other males smashed-and-shoved-together skull so severe that he had taken some offence to the actions instead of realizing the game afoot, what else could have been done?! A straight up, blunt admission, ‘were just playing around’, how un-sexy, how boring, Rois squints eyes at the door and finds, in the absence of toying with his little raging companion, the stiffness and static-prick of pain from the prior transformation is waxing like falling rain strengthening against his body. A distraction lost. But even as the price for such callous teasing falls upon the breadth of his shoulders, the butcher cannot help but get a little… psychoanalytical about the affair; the words thrown at him did not sow anger, just… interest.

People skedaddling off in tears was one thing, howling out in pain clawing away another, but being pissed off because he’d abandoned Lamb’s cock was definitely a new scenario. There could only be one logical conclusion dragged up from the mire of thought, nestled against the table in silent reflection, had… Asher’s feelings been hurt? Not the soft sentiments of friendly emotion, not real feelings of betrayal or real anguish at his lackadaisical nature, it had to be… disappointment. Something like fire rekindled sparked within his chest, lips splitting in deranged glee, the other had been disappointed that his manhood had been abandoned so easily by wants of the usual flesh, he’d very much wanted the red-heads mouth so eagerly that now, now he was awash with despair--

The moment Asher passes the threshold of the door once again with a touch of meekness, Rois calls from the floor with the smile wiped clean from his face (lest it cause any more miscommunication)--

“Hey! Come back here,” … It is fringed with a slight whine, half truthful, half posed, “I didn’t mean to piss you off-- I knew you’d be new to this whole… thing, but I did not realise… just how much-- I apologize.”

Aw, so sweet of him to do so after ravaging the mans legs!! A simple head bow, it’s all act, really what turns about his mind is something far stranger. Something scientific. Something that begs him to watch and learn and monitor, more, he needed more, wanted to understand like observing a butterfly pinned to a board and torch-shine, he wants the game to continue, very much so--

“The biting was supposed to turn you on more… and if you didn’t like it, I expected you to say ‘stop’.” And not twist him against the ground, as intriguing as that flashy movement had been-- when Rois lifts his head he is all brattish pout, this part isn’t false, it’s real, this large bastard and his downturned brows,

“And I stopped sucking you off because I wanted the moment to last longer…”

Would that be clear enough for him?!

“It is just a game, Lamb, and when I say ‘game’ I mean we were playing. Fooling around. Sexually play-fighting. I wasn’t going to actually eat your leg-flesh off your bones.”
 
The apology irks him even more. Lying, lying, lying! Why do people always assume that Asher can not tell when they are misleading him? Only that little pout at the end, unbecoming but earnest, saves Rois' life.

Asher doesn't come over, but he does step back into the kitchen all the way and closes the door behind him. At some hazy point in the middle of it, he must've slinked out of boots and pants, because they are on the floor. (The boots are soft leather and slip off easily. This is an important detail when walking in the swamp, in case one gets stuck in the mud at just the wrong moment). Leaving the boots, he bends down and picks up his pants, but doesn't put them on yet.

"I know how 'stop' and 'go on' works, I'm not stupid. That's not what bothered me."

An omission of his own. That is part of the bother, but not all of it. Asher isn't so petulant that he would quit a game early just because he might not win. No, it is something deeper eating at Asher, and if Rois wants to know the real trouble, he can damn well wait for once.

Asher still doesn't come over because he is busy rifling around. He locates a clean rag - a rare commodity in the dingy kitchen - and pulls down a wooden wash tub hanging from a hook on the wall. Filling the tub with the remaining water he’d used for the coffee, Asher sits down on his knees next to it and begins wiping the blood, sweat, and spittle off of his body. The rag smooths over broken skin along the inside of thighs, water cooling some of the heat and the anger. He dips the rag back in and wrings out the grime.

Ropy tendrils of blood drip out into the tub and sink down. Dense and shimmering, the lines of red wriggle at the bottom like worms, keeping their shape even when Asher disturbs the water with a hand. That is absolutely not what blood is supposed to do.

"Stop talking about sex for a moment, there's something wrong." Asher points at the sloshing basin. "Look, my blood's not mixing into the water."

Well, the carrion-eater would have a font of information about this topic. Might as well tap it.

"Did it taste... off to you?"
 

Don’t be mean. Don’t be mean. Don’t be mean.

Rois gives a shuddering inhale of ‘whatever’, venomous words dripping on his tongue but never spilling past lips, fine. Lamb’s little beats of bravery would not be curved by tone, maybe by facade, moodily the red-head drags himself to his legs using the table as a brace and sits himself down in the not-broken chair with a soft grimace. Boring Asher, stupid little man and his aggravating tendency to just do things in this busy-body manner, as if all the empty space in his skull had been suddenly filled to the brim with an urgent need to do something.

Taste still lingered against fangs… and what a lovely taste it had been. Cat-like, he begins to take the half-drying substance in shades of brackish red from his fingers with a tongue, it keeps his mouth occupied, he had stopped talking for a little while just in case he is mean, no, no need to be mean to Asher, he hadn’t technically done anything wrong. He had denied consent, that was fine, the youth had holes in his leg and a blood-blossomed shoulder and did not need more pain, peachy. It was OK. Oh… but Rois hated not getting what he wanted, hated games cut short for what he’d perceive as nonsense, slitted pupils are harsh upon Lamb’s back until worried voice meets his ears;

“... No? Everyones blood tastes different… and I mean, everyones.” Comes a stoic mumble. It varied so much to someone whose tongue had been muddled during transformation like the rest of that strange body, as if buds had been skewed to pick up on things that should not be known by the average souls mouth… bitter, sweet, sharp, mild, thicker, thinner, stronger, weaker, every single piece of flesh taken against the man’s teeth was different; but they shared one thing in common. All… delicious. The variables of one’s life were too great, too many, the complexity had a flavour depth that none could ever know, and so while Asher’s blood had been as fresh as any others it did not stand out as 'off'.

“You’re hardly normal, so…” … Just a bit mean.

A consideration for the taste again, tongue-slide against the crux of his thumb, the last of the stains to be ridden from his golden skin… nope. Nothing weird. Dimly he lets eyes fall upon Asher, coming to a lilted stand, he guessed it was fair to see what the Hells the other was somehow so calmly squawking about-- a saddle up to the basins edge to peer in……………………………………..

… He hadn’t noticed it before. Not at all, there was too much pain-haze, too much sour thought, but now glimpsing down at the writhing of blood tendrils dancing in whorls against the water Rois’s eyes fly open in shock. Puffs up like a frightened cat, no, not for Asher’s sake, for his, wait, wait, now he can feel it, it hadn’t been the twitching of muscles spent by Shroud-fueled transformation, it was something far more horrific. Something uncanny. Something like butterflies but not, the butcher spares Lamb a little gasp of horror before dragging claws in a light rake against his own bare belly--

“W-What did you infect me with!” A sweeping look down… no, his mid-section looked very normal. Maybe it was best to figure out whether people weren’t objects of horror before consistently swallowing down their blood, moving, its all moving, the way it’s scraping at his stomach lining is weak and barely felt but felt none the same, Rois puts hands to head and exclaims with a loud bark,

“There’s… those things inside me! Moving!!” Tumbling, writhing, perishing in the heat and acid, the butcher shoves a hand over his mouth suddenly and violently. That massive pressure cooker of a body is physically repulsed by the sensation of a thousand things poking and prodding at his innards… but his mind?

Well… it’s new, different, interesting… he kind of doesn’t want to puke.
 
Pants. If they are going to panic about this, Asher wants his pants back on. One loose-fitted woolen leg is dragged up after the other. Scratch of freshly formed scabs has him feeling tender, and... unspent. He stands and does the ties.

Asher leaves Rois to his appalled gasping, walking past the scrambling man. His movements are too measured to be motivated by callousness alone. He grabs the flour sieve from a hanging row of pots and pans and uses it to fish out the bloody bits from the tub like tadpoles in a pond.

“W-What did you infect me with!” ​

He thinks this is one of those questions which is so obvious that it isn't supposed to be answered, and so Asher doesn't answer. It's a short, dripping trip over to the stove, where he opens the door and tosses the filth into the fire. The sieve's edge goes tap-tap against the inside of the firebox. Blood hisses and whines as any other liquid does when dashed to flame, until it is only black smudges on burning wood.

The door is shut and latched again quickly, before smoke makes Asher’s eyes water. One source of infection gone, he turns to the other.

"That doesn't sound good," Asher says. "We should probably find you a healer."

And they knew where one was, more or less. The rebels couldn't of gone that far down the road, even with the horses.
 

There he goes, doing his usual blank-faced shuffling in muted eagerness to do something, this time it’s the disposal of blood worms still sprightly in the face of their demise… many strange thoughts are coursing through the butchers head in that specific moment. If he puked them up upon the floor, could they be watched till the death, spiralling nauseating patterns in wet rows as they perished by acid-touch? Could they be used for fishing, did Lamb have his own in-built bait, sure to attract the bigguns if water leeched their scent across rolling river? How were they moving, were they possessing of thought or creatures of pure instinct-- were they creatures at all, or just reacting to the air, slumbering within veins until oxygen made them writhe?

… Why did it sort of tickle--

“Think. Think think think.” The moment Asher returns the youth is subjected to a finger-flat tapping him over and over again upon the skull, Rois speaks beneath his fingers, “Can you at least try to be a little alarmed about this situation, firstly!”

Wide eyes glimpse his stoic form and honestly wants to ragdoll him violently about the room in an attempt to make the other at least gain some semblance of worry--

“Your blood. Is moving. Outside your body. And you think I need a healer!?”

The only thing that stops Rois from continuing his assault on Asher’s skull is the worry that in doing so, more of the other males brains would get scrambled and he’d be bereft of thought entirely, transforming into an even more lifeless corpse possessing nothing but random movement alone. Lamb didn’t need a healer.

Lamb needed to be cut into pieces, to see what happened if, when flesh was shorn from bone, if that would move as well…

“... Also, I’m going to be fine.” A rough snort as the hand falls from lips, despite the single bead of concern fixed against the mans brow he saves face by putting hand to hip and attempting the same nonchalance that the other wore like armor, defiant words, “There aren’t many things my body can’t destroy.”

… And if flesh could move, despite the natural way his large, Shroud-touched body wanted to reject both essence and notion of such a creepy idea… eating him turns from a simple idea to a feverish want. What would that feel like…
 
The prompt is given to think, but Rois had not given him anything to think about, so Asher only looks up blurry-visioned at the hand which tap-tap-taps a finger against his forehead. The first couple of taps make him flinch, but then he gets used to the rhythm.

"Can you at least try to be a little alarmed about this situation, firstly!” ​

The last tap is snatched out of the air, as Asher reaches up and wraps fingers around thick wrist. Its not s rough grab, he doesn't have to go very fast to keep up with Rois' movements.

"I am."

He is thinking, and he is alarmed. Fewer words to say both things, and falling a little short of each.

"Out loud, you mean. Fine, I'll try."

Asher pushes the hand away from his face and and lets the bigger man's arm drop like a weight. When Rois says he's going to be fine, it's accepted by Asher with little doubt. He had seen how eyes watched the unfurling of death and drudgery with a removed gleam, gloating but far away. A person only got like that if they were very, very hard to kill.

What was Asher, then? Already dead, he figures.

"When I got hurt the first time, my blood was normal." Normal in that it was not squiggling and it it didn't smell like dirt. "Something happened between then and now. It couldn't be the biting, that's not very different from being stabbed. So, it must have been... the other thing..."

Quickened pulse, beating heart, anger and lust. Feeling some way. He's heard of weavers losing control of their gifts in the heat of the moment, pushed to extremes by heightened emotion. It stands to reason that creepy-crawlies in the blood would be similarly driven. Asher's cheeks flush at the realization. Not because he is embarrassed, but because he knows he's just messed up saying it aloud. If the yeyeur atlin catches on to the theory, Asher will never get a moment's rest.

"Nevermind," he tries to cover his tracks. "I don't know anything. I am going to go ask the bird."

He's turning around for the door again, only halfly convinced that he's going to reach it.
 

Grab and release. With his lackluster ability to detect another’s emotional state without them displaying it physically, Lamb’s little internal parade of feeling wasn’t going to cut it. Not if he wanted him to know what he was feeling, anyhow; and at first the others murmurings are regarded with the same deathly seriousness that Rois had given the almost-dead worms and the possibility of infection. It was halfly false, thoughts still mounted about discoveries of the flesh that could be scrounged out of this exceedingly strange interaction… but the moment pink dares to grace Asher’s cheek the storm breaks. The facade crumbles, and devolving into prance-and-pony show the red-head spares Asher a gasp with sparkling pupils--

“Lamb… together, we have stumbled upon something very, very exciting.”

Quick-step, rounding the others wandering form to stop him from ever reaching what the younger had known he’d never reach, arms splayed in almost a semi-block… sure, Asher had been outside, but with clouded mind swirling with anger directed at said living blockade there had been a veil pulled over wooly eyes. He had not looked. He had not seen. It was for the best. Rois was extremely content with keeping the focus off of himself--

“Your new line of employment; instead of being a hunter… what if you became a prostitute?”

Oh, dog is serious, all bared fangs in a smile and perked up ears as if the notion was, quite simply, genius, Yeyeur atlin does catch on because he is no idiot (unless it comes to emotions in general),

“If this is what lust does to you… can you imagine how much people would pay to have your load squirming inside them-- if it even does-- you’d make your money in no time. We just have to push you… to your extremes.”

A closer lean… shadow-fall swallows Asher’s begrudgingly slack form, Rois seemed like he was about to pounce on the poor injured creatures bones with the ferocity of a tiger who knew his prey had nowhere to scramble to-- but falls short. Lean away, fingers rubbing at a chin as eyes roll upwards in thought, extremes… actually, perhaps he did have something to share. Just a little tit-bit that, thankfully for Lamb, was not wholly fixated to the idea of the most blood curdling, torturous sexual ideas that were blossoming within that erratic skull,

“It just gets stranger…” Thoughtful murmur, careful speech, “You know… back at the beginning on the bed, where I almost burned your skin off… when I am pushed towards certain emotions, I physically change, too.”

And there was no point mentioning how alike they were because it would be refuted as it so often was--

“... What if… you’re half sex-demon?”

This is absolutely the wrong conclusion. Right road, wrong exit entirely.
 
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